


Let us use our breath for song

by lbmisscharlie



Series: Philosophy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Flirting, Misogyny, PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's reveal leaves Molly floundering; she trusted him, so how can she trust her own instincts again? With Moriarty on the run, Mycroft assigns Anthea to watch Dr Hooper's flat. When the two meet, it seems possible Molly has found someone who might understand everything she's going through, but will Anthea find herself getting too close to do her job?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt asking for [Anthea/Molly](http://sherlockrare.livejournal.com/814.html?thread=302#t302) at the [Sherlock Rare Pair Fest](http://sherlockrare.livejournal.com). This is an origin story of sort for my earlier porn one-shot [Oh the hungering teeth](http://archiveofourown.org/works/243000).

The night she found out, she stood in her shower under the too-hot water until her skin was flushed red, scrubbed her hands until her nailbeds were sore, and then sat in the corner as lukewarm then cold water fell down on her. She got out and crawled into bed naked, skin damp and hair pooling water on her pillow, curled under her duvet and didn’t sleep. She felt his hands on her skin and her stomach turned.

The next morning she got up, brushed her hair into a ponytail, and dressed in the first clean clothes she could find. She put on lipstick. She went to work.

++

That morning, no one in Pathology knew yet – Rebecca and Amir, her pathology assistants, greeted her with their usual smiles before turning back to a shared joke on Rebecca’s computer. She walked into her office and dropped her purse onto the desk. There was no trace of them, the men who’d come to tell her just how useless her life had become.

++

They’d come to her at lunchtime: two officers she’d never met, unfamiliar faces masks of concern and apprehension. She’d heard about the explosion on the news that morning – major property damage but no loss of life reported – but hadn’t connected it to Jim’s absence. Why would she?

In her office, then, and they were saying words that meant little – explosion; violent; any indication; knowledge of his whereabouts – and she was shaking her head. _No, no_ : as much to deny as to shake out their words, empty her mind so the world made sense again.

She gathered her purse and her coat numbly, followed, sat in the back of the police car. She asked once, _who else was there?_ and they exchanged glances.

She sat in a hard chair in a room with a one-way mirror, alone. Hands on the table, cold metal almost aching against fingernails cut too short two days before. The skin around them was ragged; she bit off a hangnail and then, unsure, spit it into her hand.

The door pushed open and DI Lestrade walked in and it made no sense. He’s homicide, not bomb squad, not terrorism, and the news had said no casualties. He looked like hell, though, suit and hair covered in dust, jacket torn on the elbow, one hand clumsily bandaged.

“Why?” was all she could breathe; she didn’t know to formulate the words in her mind, to bring them together to make some sense, but he understood, and he nodded.

“Jim,” he said, hands opening at his sides, futile, and she nodded back. Yes, Jim, they’d said as much in her office at the lab, but beyond that the pieces didn’t fit. He exhaled and began again.

“James Moriarty, I should say. Murderer, domestic terrorist, criminal mastermind,” he snorted a mirthless laugh at the last one. “At 12:16 this morning a bomb was detonated in a fitness centre, severely injuring Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Moriarty was the one who put it there.”

There was nothing about it that made sense, because they’d only, only met that once, and why? No. “Sherlock was there?” She looked up at Lestrade, at his face dirtied with dust and sweat and his eyes tired.

“It was a game; it’s been a game this whole time, Connie Prince, and the Vermeer, and the explosion two days ago.” He wasn’t making sense again but she watched him, one hand steadying against the wall, the other on his forehead.

“And Jim?” That’s why she was here, then, because she knew him – thought she knew him – they thought she was a witness or something but she didn’t know anything.

“We need to find him. We’re hoping you can help us.” He said it tonelessly; there was no hope there. Either they knew any information she had was useless or – or. She couldn’t quite complete the thought. She shook her head, again, the gesture rhythmic and familiar and her hair stuck sweatily to her cheeks.

“I can give you his address and his phone number but I don’t – I haven’t, haven’t heard from him in days. I don’t know where he is.” He nodded wearily, not looking at her. The door opened and another officer walked in, again unfamiliar, reddish hair and a scared expression.

“DC Medlock will take your statement and ask you a few questions.” He left without looking at her, which was far more unsettling than the wide-eyed Constable sitting across from her and opening a file.

The questions were rote at first, Medlock robotic and disengaged. Molly thought she’d been given the bottom of the barrel, the lowest member of the team while the rest are out pursuing real leads. She’d be offended except she wanted nothing to do with it anyway.

Medlock got into her role after a while, though, firing questions more rapidly, about her involvement with Jim, about her past, her family, her hobbies and time spent alone. Molly answered, confused but complacent, waiting for them to be done, to realize that she’s useless to them.

That’s how she felt, useless. Duped, idiotic, a fool and a victim.

Two hours in, Medlock got up to get her a glass of water, left her notes behind. Molly stretched across the table to look, wouldn’t touch them, didn’t want to be caught looking. She was good at deciphering handwriting – it was cliché to say doctors have the worst, but they do, and Molly had gotten used to it over years of poring through charts – and she could read it upside down.

She saw her name, the date and time, notes on the circumstances and her first few answers. The notes dwindled after a while, but down at the bottom there was a large question mark next to the words _known acquaintance of a domestic terrorist._ She sat back, breath blown out of her.

That’s what she was, then, Jim Moriarty’s _known acquaintance_. His intimate, his toy. She felt her skin crawl where he’d touched her as if he’d placed his bombs under her epidermis, surgeries in the night when she’d lain, curled and comfortable, next to him in her soft bed. That was what she’d always be, now, someone who knew a terrorist, a madman, who took him to her bed and couldn’t tell, who saw his bumbling smiles and his shy hands and thought them sweet.

She almost wished she had known, could change _acquaintance_ to _accomplice_. Because at least then she wouldn’t have to wonder, she’d know. She wouldn’t feel betrayed by her own mind.

Medlock returned and it was another hour of questions to which Molly replied dully, unable to think of anything beyond his lips stuttering hesitantly over her skin, her hand guiding him on her flesh, charmed by their shared shyness. She felt sick, like the water in her stomach was a roiling oceanic storm.

After a while, Medlock either ran out of questions or tired of listening to her listless responses. She stepped into the hallway and returned with Sergeant Donovan, who looked less tired than emotionally weary, shoulders slumped in her oxford shirt, mouth downturned.

Sergeant Donovan took her back to her flat. They’d seen each other occasionally, Donovan coming into the morgue to relay messages or pick up evidence. She was quietly efficient – Molly had always admired that about her. When they walked in, the flat was in quiet disarray and she knew it had been searched. The knowledge exhausted her.

“I’m to stay the night, to –” she didn’t finish and Molly wasn’t sure if she was protection or security, keeping him out or keeping her in. Molly just nodded resignedly and walked to the kitchen. She opened the freezer and stared, blindly. Donovan walked in behind her, hovering at the counter. “You don’t need to entertain me, or anything. I’ll just stay out here, out of your hair. You do what you need to do.”

Molly gestured dumbly to the freezer. “There’s food, if you – pizza or, I don’t know,” she thumbed through the boxes, uncomprehending. Donovan’s hand on her shoulder stilled her.

“It’s okay, really. Why don’t I order something while you go shower or change or whatever you need?” Molly nodded and closed the door. She went to the bathroom and turned the water on.

When she didn’t come out, Donovan didn’t come get her. She went straight to bed and was abstractedly thankful there was no knock on her door.

++

So, when she arrived to work the next day and no one knew – when she was greeted as usual and her office was still tidily messy and bodies still waited for her in cold storage – it was all a bit surreal. Because she’d just learned rather harshly not to trust what she saw, that she couldn’t believe a word her mind said, that what she knew could only be an illusion.

It was somewhat of a relief, then, when the same brash, eager-to-prove-herself Constable asked questions in the IT department, and word began to spread. She knew, instantly, the first time she met someone who knew; Kevin, IT technician, whose eyes slid away, embarrassed, when they passed in the cafeteria.

She expected to feel embarrassment as well, to feel like a laughingstock as they all realized her silly little flirtation was actually with a possible mass murderer, but instead there was a sense of elation. Because no one else saw it either, no one else sensed something beneath that geeky, eager exterior.

++

She walked home from the Tube that night with her keys between her fingers. It wasn’t that she expected it to make a difference – if what Donovan told her was true, he’d kidnapped John Watson and he was a trained soldier – but the thought of getting a little blood in if something does go down appealed. She tried to stay alert, scan for possible threats, which was why the car caught her eye.

A bit nice for her neighbourhood, but not outlandishly so; what really made it stand out was its unexpected cleanliness. Most cars, that time of year, had a healthy splattering of mud, windscreens gone dull grey around the edges, fenders awash with the hazy grim of winter, made more apparent by the weak evening light as the days grew longer.

This car, though, a black, polished sedan with dark-tinted windows, gleamed richly, a warm cast thrown over it by the newly-lit streetlight above. Molly approached it from the rear, parked as it was only a few metres from her front door. She tried not to look too obviously, which was just as well because the dark windows gave away nothing.

She averted her gaze as she passed, but snuck a peek as she unlocked her door. The driver was seated in the front, a man in his forties, but when she looked his attention was focused on a folded newspaper, pencil in one hand. She swallowed and pushed the door open.

Arriving in her flat, she closed the door, locking it with shaking hands, and leaned against it unsteadily. Feeling her ankles wobble, she slid down to the floor, head in her hands. Drawing a tremulous breath, she spoke to the empty, dark room. “How is this my life?”

From the kitchen, Toby meowed at the sound of her voice and after the initial startle passed, she laughed. She pushed herself off the floor and made him some food before going to bed with her clothes still on.

++

The car was still there when she left in the morning and when she arrived home. It remained for the next three days, the driver’s seat occasionally occupied, though the driver wasn’t always the same. Molly averted her eyes each time she must walk past it and kept her curtains tightly drawn.

++

After four days of what was clearly some sort of surveillance, Molly found herself jumping at every little noise, glaring, paranoid, at every sidelong glance received. They were in excess, of late, her new notoriety having spread through the gossip grapevine of the hospital. She kept her head down, though, trying to distract herself with her duties.

She was busy in the morgue, prepping a body for autopsy, contemplating putting on music. The silence in the basement room reverberated, filling her ears with every creak of the table, every brush of fabric as she moved her body.

The door slammed open behind her back and Molly jumped, nearly nicking herself with a scalpel. “Fuck,” she cursed, under her breath, turning to see who walked in. She nearly groaned as Sherlock walked past her to examine the labels on the cold storage drawers. “What is it this time, Sherlock?” She tried to sound irritated, but it came out resigned.

Without looking at her, Sherlock said, imperiously, “You’re more easily startled today than usual, Molly. Presumably because you’ve been told about your beau’s true identity.”

“Sherlock,” John Watson’s long-suffering voice admonished Sherlock as John stepped around the corner, into the room. His arm was in a sling and he was leaning quite heavily on a cane that he hadn’t had the last few times she’d seen him – before. She couldn’t quite hide the intake of breath when she saw his face, which was swollen all up his right jaw and a rather spectacularly nausea-inducing shade of chartreuse.

“Whoa. Shouldn’t you still be in hospital?”

John shrugged reflexively, wincing a bit at the movement. “Tell that to action man over there. He thinks this Albert Dorian fellow they just brought in was killed by Moriarty.”

She flinched at the name, but caught herself. “Did Dorian have something to do with the – with the pool?”

John shook his head. “Not sure. His body was found near the site, though, so we have to investigate.”

“It was a bomb, right?” She asked quietly. John nodded, watching her carefully. “Shouldn’t Sherlock be – I mean, you look like hell and he’s just –” once the words were out of her mouth she realized how insensitive they sounded, but John’s face softened into something she couldn’t quite read. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock stiffen, turning to look toward them, and when she glanced over she caught a quick flash of something like regret, or pain, on his face.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, though, and John straightened, cane forgotten in one hand. “I covered him,” was all he said. They stood in awkward silence for a moment before Sherlock turned back to the drawers, pulling open the one containing Dorian. They chatted about her findings while Sherlock examined the body, frowning.

“We’ll have to wait for forensic details on the evidence found on his clothing.” Sherlock fired off a quick text, scowling. He pushed the drawer back in with a loud clang and Molly jumped again at the noise, even expecting it.

Sherlock’s gaze swept over her and she waited for the inevitable strained compliment that meant Sherlock wanted something more. When it didn’t come, she looked up, to find him regarding her ponderously. He spoke as if continuing a line of conversation held only in his own mind. “No, it’s more than that. You’re not just jumpy because of Moriarty, you’ve seen something. What?”

Of course he could tell; Molly didn’t relish him laughing at her paranoia, though. It was just a car, after all. Molly glanced down at her hands, worried cuticles and knuckles a little raw. “It’s probably nothing.”

John was next to her then, with such an expression of concern that she had no doubt he’d reach out if he had a spare hand. “It’s never nothing, Molly. You can tell us.”

She sighed and glanced up at John. “It’s just, there’s been this car on my street the past few days. When I leave, when I get home, it’s always there. It doesn’t really fit in, is all. Sometimes the driver’s there but it’s not always the same man.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What type of car?”

“Black sedan, kind of sleek. Posh.”

The noise Sherlock made at this was pure contempt. “Mycroft?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded in confirmation.

He frowned, regarding Molly closely. “Why would he…and so blatantly, too. Either he’s slipping or he’s sending a message.”

“As much as you’d like it to be the first,” John responded dryly, “I have a feeling it’s the second.”

“Wait. Who’s this we’re talking about?”

John looked pointedly at Sherlock, who scowled. “Mycroft Holmes – Sherlock’s brother.”

Molly’s face must give away her surprise. “It’s okay to be horrified. Most people are, I think, when they find out there’s two of them.” He glanced fondly at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes back. “No matter which one they meet first, it seems.”

“Why would he be watching me?”

“Why indeed?” Sherlock peered at her, as if the answer would write itself on her face. “He could watch just as easily through CC-TV, why send the car?” CC-TV? Who exactly was Sherlock’s brother?

“More immediate protection?” Sherlock considered John’s suggestion, actually went silent and looked thoughtful. Molly was shocked; she’d never seen him do more than immediately shoot down other people’s ideas, usually with some colourful insult attached.

“He’s up to something.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth. “But it will need to wait. Come, John, perhaps if we oversee Anderson he’ll actually get the forensics finished sometime this century.” He swept past John and out the door.

Calling good-naturedly after him, John walked more slowly to the door. “You know you’re banned from his lab, right?”

He paused at the door. “Whoever’s in that car is harmless. Mostly. Probably. Anyway, it’s undoubtedly for your protection, and Mycroft’s people are the best. You needn’t worry.” She nodded, slightly reassured, and with one last long look, John stepped out.

++

Molly walked home that night with slightly more confidence. She picked up an order of her favourite curry from the takeaway on the corner, its rich smell stimulating her appetite and the prospect of a night in with a bottle of a nice chardonnay strengthening her confidence.

The car was there, clean and shining against the grime of the street, and Molly felt a rush of annoyance bubble up. She’d had quite enough of this, this silent patronage, constant reminder of her failings. If there were going to be eyes on her, she wanted it on her terms. She was tired of being out of the loop.

She knocked on the window and wasn’t surprised when it rolled down. What did surprise her, though, was the brunette with the expectant smile. She wasn’t sure who she thought would be in the car – hard, war-hardened men or slight tech geeks working cameras – but this, dark hair and bright eyes and a mouth that teased with the hint of a laugh, this was all wrong.

“Dr Hooper. What can we do for you?”

It was so matter-of-fact; she had expected protestations and denials. “I…” Molly sucked up her courage and what was left of her rapidly-fading annoyance. “I just thought if you’re going to be here guarding me, may as well come up and keep me company.” She held up the bag of takeaway and smiled nervously. “I’ve got curry.”

To her surprise, the woman in the car broke into a proper smile. “My favourite,” she said, her tone bordering on flirtatious. With a murmured word to her colleague in the front seat, she opened the door and stepped out. She minutely smoothed her skirt and gestured for Molly to lead the way, although there was no doubt in Molly’s mind she knew exactly which door was hers.

She flicked on the light as they walked in and Toby rounded the corner from the sitting room with a loud meow. He took a few steps into the hallway before freezing and scrambling away. “I’m sorry, he doesn’t much like strangers,” Molly apologized, thinking of Jim and his patient coaxing. He’d spent long minutes stone still on his knees, holding out a treat to Toby hiding under the sofa, until the cat had succumbed to curiosity and cautiously crept out.

“It’s quite alright,” the woman murmured, unbuttoning her coat. Molly fumbled with the curry and her keys for a moment, setting them both down on the entryway table so she could take the coat to hang.

“Let me, um –”

“Anthea.” She stressed the first syllable, tongue just touching her front teeth on the _th_ sound, the end falling away like a whisper.

Molly hung the coat on a hook. “That’s a lovely name.”

“Thanks.” She smiled again, sweetly, looking just away so their eyes didn’t quite meet. Molly picked up the curry again and directed them into the kitchen, where she busied herself pulling out plates and silverware, opening and pouring the wine, while Anthea settled into one of the bar stools at the table in the corner.

Anthea accepted her wine and food with a gracious smile and as she sat, Molly felt a tremor of uncertainty, a worry that she might now make a total fool of herself. She needn’t have worried, though, for after asking her about the wine, Anthea directed their conversation smoothly into a discussion about New Zealand and travel and soon they were sharing stories about their gap years and laughing like old friends.

With a sigh of contentment, Anthea pushed her plate away from her. “That was wonderful. I’ll have to remember that restaurant for the future. Now that I’m in this area occasionally,” she added, and was Molly imagining it or was that a flirtatious gleam in her eye?

She didn’t want to spoil the mood of the evening, but knew she must ask. “Why are you guys watching me?”

Anthea cocked her head, quieting as she considered. “Didn’t Sherlock tell you?”

“He didn’t seem to know – just said that Mycroft was up to something.”

“Huh. Must be distracted.” Her lip quirked up at that, as if pleased at the thought of Sherlock not knowing something. “You could say we’re sending a message.”

“Do you think he’ll come back here, try to, to hurt me?” She tried to will down the tight ball of fear forming in her stomach, unsuccessfully.

Anthea merely hummed, rather than answer, which was not comforting in the slightest. “The car is a good way of letting him know that we know about you. That you’re not alone.”

“Oh.” Molly sat back in her seat, letting her hands relax against the table. “You’re here all day long, then?”

Anthea laughed, a sweet, unfettered sound, which for all its knowing, wasn’t mocking. “No, we take it in shifts. I just do a few hours in the evening.” She glanced down at her empty plate, then to her watch. “And on that note, I must go. My replacement will be here soon.”

“Oh, of course.” Flustered, hoping she hadn’t just wasted Anthea’s evening, Molly jumped up to clear the table of dishes. She put them in the sink while Anthea slid into her coat, buttoning it snug. She hesitated for a moment before walking with Anthea to the door, unlocking and opening it wide. “Well, um, thanks, I suppose?” There were probably many things she could be thanking her for at the moment, and she wasn’t sure which exactly that was supposed to cover.

Anthea smiled again and held out her hand. They shook hands, her fingers soft and small against Molly’s own dry skin, caught in a perpetual fight against chemicals and constant washing. “Thank you for dinner, Molly. It was lovely.”

Molly watched her walk down the steps and disappear out the front door before closing and locking her door. Toby crawled out from under the sofa and wound around her feet, purring. She reached down to scratch him, absently, mind still on the woman who had just left and her easy, sweet, comforting smile.

++

When she walked home the next night, Anthea was leaning against the car, sleek wool coat buttoned tight against the brisk wind, gloved hands moving swiftly over the keys of her Blackberry. Molly stopped in front of her and she looked up and smiled. “I brought Thai.” She gestured to a bag at her feet. Molly grinned and invited her up. She tried to hide her pleasure at seeing the woman waiting for her; she had wondered, fleetingly, whether it had been a one-time thing, and then not-so-fleetingly about whether she wanted it to be.

Anthea, once more, followed a step behind Molly, allowing her to push open the door, turn on the light, direct her where to put the takeaway. She moved into Molly’s flat confidently, with the air of someone who adapts well to new environments, yet maintained a distance that suggested respect for Molly’s space. A wayward thought flashed through Molly’s mind of her slightly too-neat papers, a lamp just off centre, cushions plumped rather than smashed forlornly into the corner of the sofa; had Anthea been part of the team which swept her apartment, the day she spent at the police station?

She decided not to ask; it wasn’t personal, it was her job. She wasn’t quite sure, though, why she felt a tightness in her chest imagining Anthea’s slim, capable fingers sliding across her belongings, her critical eye seeing all the little evidences of Molly’s quiet life. Instead, she watched Anthea pull cartons out of the paper sack, lift down two plates with Molly’s direction, lick sauce off one finger after opening the pad kee mao.

They settled into heaping plates and, as before, the conversation flowed freely. Anthea had the easy conversational grace of a diplomat, comfortable with a range of topics and able to pick out someone’s interests by the books on their shelves, their style of decorating, little hints that she drew out, listening with an engaging smile that made Molly feel the centre of her attention.

It was more than that, though. They seemed to have common interests, even possibly shared values. As she spoke, Anthea seemed to become more comfortable, more animated, even passionate. It was nice, Molly thought as they discussed a mutual love of Isabel Allende, to sit and talk with someone who wasn’t treating her like a pariah or an infant.

It seemed the entire hospital staff were of two wavelengths when it came to interacting with Molly: avoid or patronise. Those who didn’t look away the moment she walked into a room or evade small talk when they had to speak with her by necessity were instead treating her like she may either burst into tears or produce a bomb of her own at any minute.

She almost wanted to do one or the other just to make them shut their gingerly consoling, cliché-ridden, gossip-mongering mouths.

Anthea, though, spoke frankly and warmly and with what seemed to be genuine interest. They hadn’t once discussed either of their jobs; Anthea’s being the huge, camouflaged, probably bugged elephant in the room, and Molly’s being, well. It’s not that she didn’t like her job: she enjoyed it thoroughly, was proud of her achievements and knowledge, and took satisfaction in the justice and good deeds her work helped produce.

However, it seemed more and more it seemed that each time she tried to make a new friend or go on a first date, the person sitting across the table from her formed some sort of fascination over her career. Sometimes it was a creepy, misguided goth fetish, occasionally it was horror that a ‘nice girl’ could work in her field, or, in Jim’s case, an obsession with certain connections to her job. Molly didn’t relish the moment when she found out which way Anthea would go.

She also found herself a little uncertain as to which category these meetings might begin to fall under: friend or date?

++

Molly’s mother called the next day. On her lunch break, Molly picked up her mobile and grimaced at the caller ID. She ran through an annotated list of everything that’s happened since they last spoke ten days ago, deciding which she couldn’t – wouldn’t – talk about.

 _Jim? Must say something, she knew we were dating.  
Bomb? Absolutely not.  
Police investigation? Not an option.  
Work? Safe, don’t mention Sherlock.  
Toby? Always good.  
Anthea? Best not – how to explain?_

“Mum! How are you?” She kept her voice brightly cheerful and listened as her mother immediately launched into a story of an almost absurdly irate patient she’d dealt with that morning. Tess Hooper was a doctor as well, a podiatrist, and inordinately – almost embarrassingly – proud of her daughter’s career. She was the type of parent who could talk up Molly’s recent pay rise in the same breath as her sister Tracy’s newly-announced pregnancy.

She was also, however, a world-class worrier, something she and Molly held in common. While Molly tended to fret silently, though, Tess preferred to vocally and comprehensively cycle through every possible eventuality, offering suggestions along the way.

Which was why, if Molly could possibly help it, she would never know the truth about Jim.

She responded appropriately to her mother’s stories, updated her on Toby’s latest habit of sleeping underneath the lip of her kitchen cupboards, and managed to stay appropriately vague about work being ‘the usual.’ As the conversation dwindled, she thought she might actually get out of it without riling her mother’s suspicion.

“Molly, are you quite alright? You sound a bit distant.” Not quite.

“Ah, um, yes, I’m fine. There’s been a bit of, er, drama at work of late.” Best skate close to the truth, more convincing that way. “I’ve been trying to stay out of it, actually.”

“Ah, that’s good. Nose to the grindstone, that’ll gain you more respect at work anyway.” Molly didn’t at all want to think about what _respect_ she was receiving at the moment. “Have you been seeing much of that Jim fellow?”

“Um, no, we actually aren’t seeing each other anymore.” She swallowed, dreading the follow-up. “Actually, I think he might be gay,” she blurted out, immediately regretting her words.

“Oh. Well, are you okay, do you want to talk about it?” Her mother sounded puzzled but not terribly surprised and Molly wondered again why everyone thought she had such terrible gaydar. In her defence, the way Jim had acted in public – around Sherlock, her mind helpfully supplied – was a far cry from the way he’d touched her, the shy, pleased, slippery smile he’d give her in bed, the faint suggestion of hesitation that allowed her to lead, to feel in control.

She swallowed wetly, mouth filling with acrid saliva and stomach churning. She pushed her salad away. “No, mum, I’m okay. I am, really.” That wouldn’t convince her, not Tess, but it might convince her to stop asking.

The call ended with Tess drawing a promise out of Molly to come by for dinner next week and, as always, to stay safe. Molly hung up and leaned against the table, letting out a long, low sigh.

++

That evening, she found herself once more hoping to see Anthea outside her flat. She told herself not to anticipate anything; after all, once was politeness, twice a kindness, but three times could be deemed a habit. When she rounded the corner, the car was there as usual, but shut up tight, windows dark and reflective, no sign of Anthea.

Despite the ball of disappointment rolling in her gut, Molly forced herself to walk past at a brisk pace, not allowing a slowing of steps or a glance in the window. She opened the front door and closed it firmly – loudly – behind her.

She had just kicked off her shoes and let loose her ponytail when the door buzzed. Frowning, she pushed the button next to the intercom. “Hello?”

“Hi, Molly, sorry to disturb you.” Even with the crackling of the connection, Molly recognized her voice.

She paused, gathering herself, before answering. “No, don’t worry, you’re not disrupting anything.”

“Good. I just wondered if I might – if you’d like some company.” There was a hint of suggestion in the aborted first phrase, almost an appeal, before Anthea rephrased, maybe to give Molly more option to refuse.

Molly bit her lip, trying to keep from sighing with relief. “Please, I’d like that.” She buzzed her up, scrapping her hands distractedly through her hair as she thought about what she might have in the freezer to eat.

They settled on the sofa this time while they waited for pizza to cook in the oven. Molly twisted her hands, glancing down at the floor, anxious in the heavy silence.

“I hope you don’t mind, my inviting myself up.” Anthea ducked her head a bit to catch Molly’s eye and Molly brightened, shook her head.

“No, of course not.”

“I thought I wouldn’t – thought you might need a night alone – but when you passed you looked so…” she paused, searching for the right word. “…so frustrated. I wanted to help.” Molly was surprised; she’d expected to hear that she looked sad or angry or annoyed, but frustrated was so much closer to the mark, as if Anthea had read her emotions better than she had herself.

“No, I…actually, you’re right. You could say I’m frustrated at the moment.” Molly rubbed behind her ear, attempting to relieve some pressure.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know, I just – it’s everything, everyone really. My mum called me today and I just could not tell her anything, because she’d fuss and I don’t think I could stand it at the moment. Everyone at work treats me like I’m about to explode, when they’re not ignoring me altogether, that is. And I just don’t – there’s no one I can – I don’t know,” she trailed off.

Anthea looked at her, considering. “You don’t feel like you can talk to anyone without them judging or worrying.”

Molly smiled grimly. “Yeah, that’s about right. No one except, well, you, really.” She glanced sidelong at Anthea, catching her as the corners of her mouth twitched slightly, nearly into a small smile. “Not that we have to – talk about it,” she added hastily, “it’s just that you know, know it all, but you still treat me like a normal human being. God, I need that right now.”

Anthea smiled fully at that. “Good. I like – talking with you. I’ve enjoyed the past few evenings.”

“Me too.” A moment passed as they let the words settle. “I wouldn’t mind if you kept coming by. When you’re on duty, if you don’t have other things to take care of, that is.”

Anthea laughed, a bit, though Molly wasn’t sure at what, but the sound was overlaid by the beeping of the oven, signalling the pizza was finished. They stood together and Anthea paused for just a moment, saying over the sound of the timer, “I’d like that.”

++

A routine was set, then. Anthea’s evening shifts gradually seemed to grow longer as the two sat, and talked, and ate, all with a comfortable ease that seemed to suggest an affinity deeper than circumstance. The sixth night, Molly came home a bit late with a tote bulging with all the ingredients for her favourite penne all’arrabbiata. They sipped a dark, heady merlot while she made the sauce, Anthea egging her on as she stirred in the chillies, until she had added far more than usual.

The sauce tingled on her lips and filled her mouth with flavour. Watching as Anthea savoured a bite, she leaned forward unconsciously, a desperate need to touch those full lips, to lick all the spice out of Anthea’s mouth suddenly overcoming her. Anthea smiled, eyes heavy and sated, and darted her tongue out to swipe across her lower lip.

For a moment, Molly thought, _that’s it, that’s the invitation_ , and she almost leaned across the table to capture those lips with hers before Anthea let out a satisfied sigh and the moment shifted. Molly darted up to refill their wine glasses to cover her fluster.

After Anthea left, Molly scooped a last spoonful of sauce into her mouth as she put away the leftovers. The chillies sparked on her lips and she wondered.

It wouldn’t be the first time – that she’d wondered. Molly fell easily, passionately and obsessively, and often over unsuitable partners. A time or two they’d been women: first Melena at university, with her polished-bronze skin and her lanky limbs, equally at home in the chemistry lab, elbows tucked in, body in tight control, as the football field, long strides and confident footwork.

Later, at Bart’s, there was Dr Amanda Markinos, a plastic surgeon who still found beauty in imperfections. Molly had consulted with her about the long, white scar on her shin, remnant of a playground incident, and Amanda had held her leg with gentle hands, fingers tracing the decades-old line, before telling Molly she’d remove it if Molly was absolutely sure, but she thought it had character. Molly had left it and they’d had lunch a few times. They still greeted each other with a smile when they passed in the halls.

She fell easily and trusted quickly. The most it usually got her was a hopeless crush or breathless dates and open surrender, sex marked by desire and eagerness and short but passionate relationships that fizzled out as the shine of fascination wore off.

So it wasn’t Anthea’s gender that worried her, though she’d never kissed lips like that, never held another woman’s breasts in the palm of her hand, never gripped soft, wide hips or dipped into slick wetness. It was circumstance, really: it was that their meeting had everything to do with her vulnerability. The relationship was built on an imbalance of knowledge, of need, of experience in so many things, and no matter how many books they both liked, songs they could sing by heart, meals they shared, the unequal footing remained.

She didn’t yet know if Anthea represented freedom or protection, if she desired out of interest or fear, if she would touch her and feel him.

++

Anthea ate and talked with her Blackberry at one elbow, though she apologized profusely each time she had to send off a text or answer a call.

“You really do work round the clock,” Molly marvelled after Anthea ended a particularly emphatic call in Russian. She usually stepped out of the room, taking pains to keep her voice down and, Molly guessed, avoid leaking state secrets. This call, however, had caused an amused eye-roll and what Molly assumed, given her lack of knowledge about the Russian language, was a quick, unequivocal dressing-down.

Anthea smiled, shaking her head ruefully at her mobile. “I am sorry about that. That was a particularly enthusiastic trainee. He needs to be reminded quite frequently about where his orders come from.”

Molly’s eyes widened. “Trainee what?” She wasn’t sure which would surprise her more – spy, personal assistant, or some sort of international rentboy. Anthea just smiled mysteriously in return.

“No, but really, do you ever get time off?”

“Well, I’m generally on-call all the time, but there are frequently long and often pre-planned times during which I have no duties to perform.”

“Are you actually a spy? Is Mycroft M?”

Anthea laughed, a soft, delighted sound that sent shivers down Molly’s spine. She sat up straighter to disguise them, realizing she had been leaning rather raptly onto the table, eyes following Anthea’s every movement. “I’m more of a diplomat than a secret agent. Though Mycroft’s methods are frequently unconventional.”

They shared a smile. “Does your job make it difficult, for dating and that?” Molly ventured, hoping it sounded nonchalant enough.

Anthea shrugged. “It’s not easy, no. But when I’m with someone important I can make things work.” She eyed Molly for a moment before continuing. “I tend to date workaholics anyway; they understand what it’s like to work long hours and still enjoy it. To come home after a long day and feel –” she paused, swiping her tongue across her lips. “– satisfied.”

Molly drew in a breath, her next thought on a knife’s edge. She thought of being bold, of leaning forward, of pitching her voice low and asking if Anthea went home satisfied after her shifts. It was on the tip of her tongue when her mind changed directions, asking instead, “What’s it like, then, working for Mycroft Holmes?” _Coward’s way out_ , she thought.

Anthea leaned back – was that a flicker of disappointment or Molly’s own wishful thinking? “I’m always challenged.”

Molly nodded, feeling steadier on safer territory. “Is he like Sherlock at all? That’d be hellish, I’d imagine.”

She laughed, “Actually, they’d both hate me to say it, but yes, they share some similarities. They both see everything, and though Mycroft is more judicious about how he uses it, he can be just as ruthless. They’re both completely single-minded when it comes to something important, but Sherlock’s reckless where Mycroft is meticulous.”

Anthea told a few anecdotes about her career, taking care to avoid mention of her duties regarding Moriarty or Molly. A natural storyteller, she had Molly in tears recounting a story about a particularly oblivious ambassador who invited her to his Swiss chalet every time they met. The evening progressed on topics less loaded than their own love lives – or lack thereof.


	2. Chapter 2

Eight days in was the first time they talked about Jim. Curled on Molly’s loveseat, mirror images with their feet tucked up, nearly touching in the middle, and a few glasses of wine down, Molly was the first to broach the subject.

They’d been talking about family, about Anthea’s three nieces and Molly’s little nephew on the way. Molly pictured Tracy as she had been when they made the announcement: glowing, just like everyone always said, leaning into her husband protectively. As if he were the frail one.

She blurted it out, words that she thought may have a new weight, but wasn’t sure. “I’d like to have that, one day.”

“Kids?”

“Yeah, a family anyway, kids, a partner.” She deliberately avoided the word _husband_ and thought she saw Anthea notice.

“You still can.”

“That’s why my mum keeps saying. ‘You’re still young, Molly, don’t despair quite yet, there’s plenty of time.’” She smiled ruefully. “That’s not really what I’m worried about, though.” She didn’t elaborate, looked down into her glass where the last dregs swirled.

“Ah.” Anthea glanced down too, before looking back at Molly, murmuring quietly. “He doesn’t define you, you know.”

“What?”

“What Moriarty did to you – it was terrible. And I know you’re feeling betrayed, and duped. But you’re not a victim. You’re just…” She hesitated, as if searching for words. “It’s like this: he played a part in that part of your life. He did – you can’t change it and you can’t deny it, I know. You’ll walk away changed from all of this.” She looked up and met Molly’s eyes. “But the great thing is, you get to choose how it changes you.”

Molly swallowed; Anthea’s gaze was frank and direct, as usual, but there was an openness to her, a softness around the eyes, that seemed new. There was something she wasn’t sharing the particulars of, but every line in her body spoke her vulnerability. “I don’t – I’m not sure I know how.” Her voice was a whisper, rough around the lump in her throat.

Anthea reached out, hesitantly, giving Molly time to pull away before she covered Molly’s hand with her own. It was warm, soft, and Molly could feel each fingertip where it touched the sensitive edge of her palm. “Just because you trusted him doesn’t mean you can’t trust anyone ever again.”

She turned Molly’s palm over, leaned down and brushed her lips across the soft inner part of her wrist. Molly felt her heart catch, holding her breath to feel the air from Anthea’s lungs ghosting over her skin. Anthea placed her hand back down then, removing her own so Molly’s felt suddenly cold, and the moment was gone, though a frisson remained in the air.

++

Two weeks _after_ , after the bomb and the police and the shattering of her reality, and ten dinners later, Anthea met Molly at her front step, distracted and clearly annoyed. Before Molly could even ask, Anthea took her keys, let them both in, and, allowing the door to slam closed, fairly ran up the stairs.

She heard a thud that was Anthea’s attaché case dropped to the floor, followed by two more that sounded suspiciously like high heels being flung off rather violently. Following Anthea into her own flat, Molly ventured, “I daren’t ask if it was a bad day at work, because if I’m your work I’m not sure I want to know.”

Anthea whirled to face her and Molly was surprised to see redness around the edges of her eyes. She took a step forward, hand held out instinctively as if to comfort her. Something stopped her, though, and they stood, nearly touching, in a strange tableau. Anthea closed her eyes and took a deep breath, forcing her shoulders to relax as she exhaled.

“We’re pulling out.”

“What?”

“Us, the surveillance team. Mycroft has terminated this particular mission.”

“Oh. Well, surely that’s good news. Means he doesn’t think I’m in danger anymore, right?” She tried to see the positive, to allow relief to wash over her, but all she could think was that now Anthea would have no reason to come by.

“Maybe. I don’t, I’m not sure. He…he hasn’t shared the information with me.” She scrubbed one hand across her eyes; clearly upset by the withheld information. “Mycroft is very good at managing need-to-know. But my clearance level is the same as his; in the past, he’s always given me full briefings on the intel behind every decision.”

“But not this time?” Anthea shook her head; she looked lost, standing in Molly’s foyer, in her suit and stocking feet, hands held to her sides emptily. Molly wanted to gather her into her arms, stroke her hair and kiss her temples, anything to take that wretched, pained look off her face.

“He just gave me orders. When I asked for clarification –” she said the word so deliberately that Molly suddenly imagined Anthea cursing at her boss, angry and impertinent and impassioned. “– he told me I was, I was –” she choked on the end of her statement, shaking her head as if denying the very thought of Mycroft’s words.

Molly actually did reach for her then, wrapped a hand around her bicep and stepped close, close enough to pull her into a hug if needed, close enough to smell her perfume and see the tiny lines of worry around her lips. Close enough to want to kiss them away. “What did he say?” she asked, and Anthea looked up, startled, eyes wide and unbelieving.

“He said I was too close,” she whispered and they share a gaze for three long heartbeats before Anthea wrenched away. “And he’s right. I shouldn’t be here, I can’t –” her words were frenzied as she leaned to replace her shoes, pick up her case. She walked to the door briskly, coat thrown over one arm haphazardly.

Right at the door she paused, looked back. “Stay safe, Molly.”

Molly’s tongue was glued to her mouth, her body struck dumb. She wanted to reach, to throw open the door and run down the stairs and beg Anthea to stay. But the elephant in the room had just made a rather unwelcome appearance, reminding them both of Anthea’s duties.

++

She’d had three quiet evenings alone, now, and though she always looked for the car it was never there. Arriving home on a wet, miserable night, Molly dropped her bag and toed off her boots without even turning on a light. She walked through the dark flat in stocking feet to the kitchen, calling for Toby. She heard his answering meow from under the bar table, catching a glimpse of a dark shadow when she leaned down.

“Here Toby,” she coaxed, crooking one finger to him. He had just taken a step out when suddenly he shied away with a growl as a dark shape materialized next to Molly.

“Hello, Molls, my girl,” said a sing-songy voice that made Molly freeze in fear. “What’s the matter? Not going to give me a kiss hello?”

Molly turned her head as Jim’s figure stepped into a patch of light thrown through the window. Slowly, avoiding sudden movements, she rose to her feet, keeping the counter behind her. “Jim. What are you doing here?”

He cocked his head to the side before reaching for the wall and flicking on the light. She blinked at the sudden brightness, body tensing in case of attack, but he just stood, looking at her. “Interesting. You don’t know.” He shrugged theatrically. “I would have thought your new little guard-dog would have told you.” He could only mean Anthea, which meant that he’d been watching her, watching the flat. “I left something behind and I thought it was time to retrieve it.”

For a moment, she thought he meant her, and she clutched the edge of the countertop behind her. But then he patted one pocket. “Oh, don’t worry, Molls, it’s all right here. I’ll be on my way now, just wanted to stay and say hi.” His voice went high, drawing out the greeting into two syllables, and she shivered.

“I am curious, though, where your pretty new friend is. Tired of you already? Can’t say I blame her. You always were a boring little bitch.” He took two steps forward, nearly to her, when they both heard a click in the hallway. Jim’s eyes turn away as they both look to the doorway, where Anthea appeared, handgun in one hand aimed at Jim’s head.

“Step away from her, Jim.”

He didn’t move. “Or what, my dear? I know what your employer wants; I’m afraid your bark is rather worse than your bite.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Anthea’s lips; Molly had never seen anything quite so terrifying or exhilarating, she thought. “Or I’ll shoot you. Head, heart, doesn’t much matter to me. Mycroft wants you alive; I don’t really care.” He seemed to read the cold, determined truth in her face and stepped back.

Anthea touched one finger to her ear and murmured something; almost instantaneously Molly’s front door slammed open and two men in full body armour burst in, carrying very large guns. They rather brusquely subdued Moriarty, who quipped, “Gently, now, boys, this suit’s bespoke.”

Anthea stepped in front of Molly, eyes and gun still on Jim as she shielded the other woman. “We already picked up your sniper friend across the street. He was quite displeased about the whole thing.” Jim snarled, shoulder flinching against the grip of the man holding him as if to lunge across the room at Anthea.

“Alright, cuff him and get rid of him.” Once restrained, Jim seemed to deliberately force himself to regain his composure, straightening his shoulders and cracking his neck.

“Having fun, then, are we, with my dirty castoffs?” His gaze slid from Anthea, who stood solid, gun never wavering, to Molly. “Does she beg for you like she did me, the slut?” Molly could see Anthea’s jaw tighten slightly but the woman gave no other response.

Anthea flicked her empty hand toward the door and the two men began to roughly haul Jim away. As he stumbled backward, he called out one last taunt. “I had it all wrong, didn’t I? She’s just the bait, the dumb bitch.” Anthea flinched at that and suddenly it all came clear. They had known, the whole time, that he would come. They’d left whatever it was he came to retrieve there on purpose, hoping he’d show up.

She _was_ just the bait.

As the men dragged Moriarty through her front door, Molly felt her legs weaken and she stumbled over to a chair. Anthea dropped her gun hand, tucking the weapon into a holster under her blazer, and rushed to Molly’s side. “Are you alright, Molly? I didn’t mean for – this shouldn’t have –” her words came out in a rush and Molly thought, distantly, that she had never seen her so flustered.

Anthea reached, placed her hand over Molly’s, and Molly pulled back like she’d been burned. She stared up, catching concern in the other woman’s face but not comprehending, mind full of Jim’s words. _Bitch_ and _slut_ didn’t hurt much; she’d been called both before. But _bait_. It was more of a betrayal than any lie Jim ever told her.

“Is it true, then?” she asked, voice quiet not out of timidity but resignation. “Was I just the bait?”

Anthea opened her mouth to answer but another voice interrupted. “I’m afraid I’m to answer for that.” Near the door stood a man who could only by Mycroft Holmes; he held the same impervious, self-righteous expression as his brother. He took two steps into the room, hands behind his back. “Are you quite unharmed, Dr Hooper?”

She nodded, slightly dumbstruck. “Good. I do apologize for the inconvenience. Allowing Moriarty to confront you on your own was rather our last resort.” His gaze flicked over to Anthea, who averted her eyes, before settling back on Molly. “You performed admirably. I am sorry we were unable to warn you in advance, but appearances must be maintained.”

Molly stretched her hands against the table. They trembled slightly. She looked back up at Mycroft, whose gaze was calm, collected, then to Anthea, who was leaning ever so slightly against the table, hand still hovering near Molly’s. Even though her back was turned, Molly could see the tension in her shoulders. The room was silent for a long moment before Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly.

He was looking at Anthea again, though this time she met his eye. Something seemed to pass between the two of them before he turned his head to Molly. “I feel I must add that Ms Miller – Anthea –” he clarified, “was against this plan from the beginning. Any blame, I fear, is to be laid entirely on my shoulders.”

Anthea let out a deep, shuddering breath before squaring her shoulders once more. “Sir.” He nodded smartly and turned to leave.

At the door, he paused, addressing himself once more to Molly. “If you don’t object, I would feel more comfortable if Ms Miller stayed with you tonight.” Molly looked up at Anthea, who stared resolutely ahead.

“That – I – I would appreciate that. If she doesn’t mind.” Anthea swallowed but nodded and, satisfied, Mycroft departed.

In the still silence that followed, the seconds stretched into hours. Anthea stood, back turned, still half-shielding Molly from the entrance to the flat as if by instinct. Molly wanted to touch her, to turn her around and see her face, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her hand.

“I owe you an apology, Molly. I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to me again. What I did – I had to do it, I think, but that doesn’t make it right.” She half-turned and Molly was surprised to see the light catch a glimmer of wetness at the corner of her eye. She looked at the wall as she continued. “I thought somehow if I stayed with you he’d eventually give up. The memory stick he came to get – he has copies placed in a number of locations. I hoped he would abandon the one in your flat if he believed it was the only one we knew about.

“Mycroft knew better, of course. Moriarty was always going to come; you were a loose end for him. I was blinded by – well, I wasn’t looking properly.” Molly exhaled; the sound came out a wistful sigh and Anthea turned her body more toward where Molly sat. She looked to her hand, where it still lay on the table next to Molly’s.

“I’m sorry for leaving you alone, and I’m sorry you had to see him again, and I’m so, so sorry that I couldn’t – didn’t – tell you the whole truth.”

Molly bit her lip and it was on the tip of her tongue to forgive, to take Anthea’s hand, kiss the palm, and offer benediction. But she stopped because what she’d shared wasn’t all, it wasn’t the whole story, and Molly needed to _know_. Needed to stop allowing others to choose how much information she was allowed, to keep her in the dark for their own expediency.

“You were the first here, tonight. How did you know he would…” As if released by Molly’s voice, Anthea turned fully, faced her, palms on the table, and made eye contact.

“I didn’t know.” She shook her head. “I’ve been here nearly non-stop since the night I left.” Three days and nights standing vigil. Molly swallowed. “Your neighbours across the hall went on a very well-timed vacation.” She shrugged, as if paying people off to use their flat and keeping 24 hour secret surveillance was all in a day’s work. Though, it really was, for Anthea.

“I slept while you were at work. I knew if he came he would make sure to see you, to send a message. I had to be part of the team, I had to, to protect you. After what I’d done.”

“You were doing your job,” Molly argued, and she wasn’t sure if she believed that or was just giving her an out but either way, Anthea shook her head, negating it.

“I was. And I’ve put people in danger before. But you’re different.” Her eyes roamed over Molly’s face searchingly and Molly felt blood rise to her cheeks. She moved forward slightly and seemed to want to say more, but stopped herself. “It’s been a strange evening for you. Can I order you some dinner, or make something?”

Molly shook her head; her stomach was in knots and she knew she’d keep nothing down. “I think I’d rather just have a shower then sleep.”

Anthea nodded. “I’ll be out here all night. Just shout if you need anything.”

++

This time, she scrubbed away his words and emerged feeling empowered, not broken. It had changed her, he had changed her, but she was beginning to realize that it wasn’t all bad. She tipped her head back, letting the water sluice over her hair, and thought of him leaving in handcuffs, snarling out nasty words because he hadn’t won.

He hadn’t won. She wasn’t broken.

She curled in bed once more with still-damp hair and touched her skin. She felt only her own hands and grinned in triumph. She could hear her own steady breathing in the dark and thought of shouting out, of bringing Anthea into her room, into her bed.

She remembered Anthea’s face, the words _you’re different_ , and thought, _there will be plenty of time for that_. For the first time in three weeks, she slipped one hand between her thighs. She thought of soft lips and dark hair, of full breasts pressed against hers and dark secret curves, and brought herself off with steady and sure strokes.

++

The next morning, some of that confidence had coalesced into nervous energy as she and Anthea danced around each other in the flat. The flat seemed tiny as Molly went about her morning routine a little flustered by the other woman’s presence. For her part, Anthea seemed more disconcerted than Molly would have thought possible of her, her movements chaotic and her smile, usually so quick, a little hesitant.

They fell into place together at the front door, executing the awkward who-shall-go-first dance before Anthea finally pulled the door open, gesturing Molly out. They stood on the front step, each ready to head off in opposite directions but unwilling to do so.

In a quick, decisive motion, Anthea leaned in and kissed Molly’s cheek, saying she hoped to see her again soon. Molly felt a heat low in her belly that had little to do with her earlier nervousness. They parted, Molly resolutely not looking back as she made her way to the Tube.

Anthea’s lips burned on her cheek for the rest of the day.

++

A few days later, Anthea walked into the morgue, eyes still on her phone – it was a wonder she never ran into anything – and asked about the body of Mr Sean Gorman, laid out on her slab freshly stitched from autopsy.

Molly couldn’t deny the nervous flutter somewhere in the area of her spleen that manifested at seeing Anthea again. She still wore her coat, open in front to reveal a deep purple shift dress which hugged at her curves and played off her pale skin. Molly found herself glad she swiped on lipstick earlier.

The body was one of Lestrade’s, she knew, so she’d been expecting Sherlock to take an interest, but Mycroft’s was a surprise. Unlike Sherlock, Anthea asked Molly for her conclusions rather than sweeping over the body herself. She even let the hand holding her phone drop to her side as Molly walked her through her findings. Her warm, dark eyes on Molly’s face distracted her and she fumbled with her words a bit, rifling through the paperwork to find the thread again.

Concluding with his inflamed pancreas and probably hyperparathyroidism, Molly handed Anthea a copy of the lab results, expecting her to depart and give them to Mycroft. Instead, Anthea set them on the edge of the desk.

“I have the evening off tomorrow. I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me. We could try that Moroccan place we talked about.” She gave Molly a smile, sweet and easy, and once more Molly felt the fluttering of her pulse that she tried so hard to ignore.

“I would…that would be nice. I’d like that,” she smiled back, and though it was nervous and hesitant at first her answer ended firmly, definitively, and Anthea’s eyes brightened. She reached out her hand and it hovered somewhere near Molly’s wrist when the door to the morgue slammed open.

Sherlock strode in, ignoring them both in favour of the corpse laid out on her table. John followed shortly after, staring absently at his phone and giving Molly a nod and quick smile. Anthea didn’t catch his notice for a moment, not until he looked up again, tucking the mobile away; he cocked his head and smiled once more.

Molly knew that smile – she’d seen him execute it more than once, with some of the nurses and once her pathology assistant Rebecca. Never on her, although the way he looked at her since Jim – appraising, approving – was better, preferable, she thought.

From other women, he rarely received less than a shy smile in return for his flirtation, and often more. Anthea, though, merely nodded curtly.

“Mycroft interested enough to send you in?”

Anthea’s gaze slipped, ever so slightly, from focusing distractedly on her Blackberry, quiet in one hand, to Molly. Her eyes landed somewhere near Molly’s elbow and she only noticed because she was watching, unsure, interested in how Anthea might react to John’s blatant, if charming, attempts. “Something like that,” she murmured.

John’s attention was drawn by Sherlock calling his name and gesturing excitedly to the body’s left iliac crest. With the two engrossed in the corpse, Anthea touched Molly gently, two fingers just below her elbow, to draw her eye. She smiled, amusement playing at the edges, and Molly could tell she’d been following her thoughts, the slight ache of jealousy and the tug of uncertainty insisting her attention. Anthea didn’t say anything, though, and the moment was broken by Sherlock nigh running out the door, John walking briskly in his wake.

“Ta, then, Molly, Anthea.” He tossed a smile – that smile – over his shoulder just as he rounded the corner of the doorframe. “Is it still Anthea today or have you chosen a new one?”

Anthea just shook her head, looking up long enough to say, firmly, “Goodbye, John,” before he ran off.

Molly was confused and beginning to feel like that was a permanent state when you dealt with the enigmatic right hand of the British government, when you find yourself inexplicably _involved_ with a women whose job it was to know more than she could ever tell.

“What did he mean, is it still Anthea? Is that not your real name?” She was certain she didn’t want to ask but must, because demanding full honesty was her new philosophy. She tried not to think about what it meant if she’d been lying about something so basic. What the smiles, the nights in, the brushed hands and significant glances and the feeling of soft lips against her skin signified.

“Technically? No.” Anthea was looking fully at her, not avoiding or dissembling.

“Oh,” Molly breathed out and hated her own voice, tiny and mouselike and disappointed, like she’d expected more.

Anthea – Molly wasn’t able to pin any other name on her, not yet – glanced down then back up, a fleet fluttering of lashes that was less coy than embarrassed, if that could be right. “It’s my middle name. I prefer it – strongly – so I use it professionally.”

 _Oh_. Well, that was not – couldn’t be quite classified a lie. “How does John know?”

“You may have noticed he rather likes flirting.” Molly raised an eyebrow and Anthea smiled, conspiratorially. “I rather like keeping him guessing.”

Molly couldn’t help but laugh a bit. “Are you…interested, then?” She ventured, hesitantly.

“In John?” Anthea’s brow creased minutely before she was smiling, widely, and Molly felt like she was falling and Anthea was the one controlling the parachute. Like she was caught in the split second before hitting the ground.

“I would have thought, Molly, that I’ve made it clear my interests lie elsewhere,” and her fingertips were touching Molly’s skin, left of the hollow between her collarbones, just at the edge of her shirt, and it was more intimate than anything Molly’s felt before, more than sweat-slick bodies and raw coupling and guts curling heavy with need.

Anthea leaned in, their open eyes watching together as the distance between them closed, and her lips touched Molly’s, just off-centre, their fullness covering her mouth warm and soft. And that was it; that was the moment when the parachute opened and the air slowed down and Molly knew she would live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Philosophy," by Elsa Gidlow (1923)
> 
> Since we must soon be fed  
> As honey and new bread  
> To ever hungry Death:  
> O, love me very sweet  
> And kiss me very long  
> And let us use our breath  
> For song.  
> Nothing else endures  
> Overlong.


End file.
